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Gordon Marshall

Passage

A death knell like a live wire
when it sounded, draining us,
our souls depleted like tidal pools
however much or little we expected:
failure of the force buoying us up,
even in the darkest, silent days;
the lighthouse beaconing our boat,
powering us, keeping us afloat.
He led us with his eyes, splashing
the city like radar. No poet left
for dead, however tough to rip him
from the rocks he fell upon,
however many times he slipped
away, into the mute mystic.